


Take It Off, Baby

by StormDancer



Series: Not Your Baby [3]
Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - After College/University, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Established Relationship, Frat Boy Harry, Hipster Zayn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 12:38:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6804814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormDancer/pseuds/StormDancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five articles of clothing Harry can't wait to take off Zayn, and one he wants to put back on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take It Off, Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Another installment in the Not Your Baby 'verse! Takes place after Baby Be Mine, but around Baby I'm Yours. You should probably read those first or else I don't think this will make much sense? Definitely Baby Be Mine. 
> 
> And if I get anything wrong in section 4, I'm sorry--tell me and I'll correct it, but Harry's as white as I am, so he won't be 100% correct either. I as the author do not condone all thoughts had in this fic.
> 
> None of the images are mine either! 
> 
> Enjoy!

**1**

It started as a joke. The brothers had presented the jacket to Zayn as his birthday present, and Zayn had laughed when he opened it, turned what looked like a maroon silk bomber jacket so Harry could see what was on the back.

“Not your baby,” Harry had read the embroidered letters, and he was laughing too, because he got the joke as well as the rest of them. Zayn’s constant refrain.

“In case you ever forgot,” Niall had told Harry, and then Zayn was putting on the jacket and Liam had been insisting Zayn show him the comics he’d gotten.

It had still been a joke, as Zayn wore it the rest of the night, at his ‘I don’t want a birthday party’ party, where the brothers had taken his protests to mean that he wanted a slightly lower key party and Zayn had accepted it with good enough grace. The jacket shimmered in the light, gleaming red, and the contrast of it against Zayn’s skin was something Harry could look at for hours. That, and Zayn’s laugh as he talked with Niall, the way he really seemed to be enjoying himself. Relaxing, in a way he doesn’t often get, with Harry’s friends.

Then—then they were upstairs, and Zayn had ducked up a few moments before Harry because Harry’d gotten caught in a conversation with Louis, and Harry was walking into his room and it isn’t a joke anymore. Not when Zayn’s lying on the bed, his eyes glinting. The blankets are pulled up, just over his hips so they’re bisecting the tattooed heart, and the jacket’s still on—and that’s it. Nothing else.

Harry shuts the door behind him. “That was fast.”

“It’s my birthday,” Zayn tells him. He’s a little drunk, his cheeks flushed just enough that the jacket seems to bring out the red there even more. “I’m allowed to do what I want.”

“Really?” Harry’s not sure Zayn ever does anything but what he wants. He’s not sure he could ever say no to Zayn, with how he’s grinning at Harry, his gaze daring, that jacket bringing out the red of his lips. Not your baby, it says, and Harry knows that’s true—Zayn’s not his. Not in any real way. Zayn’s his own, bold and brilliant and freestanding.

But right now, he’s got that hot look as he looks at Harry, and Harry smirks as he approaches Zayn, climbing onto his legs. “Are those the rules?” he asks, watching as Zayn’s eyes go dark. He slides his hands up Zayn’s torso, under the jacket.

“Yes.” Zayn tells him, surely. “And now what I want is you.”

“Demanding, baby,” Harry purrs. His hands are next to Zayn’s head now, pushing him back down against the blankets.

“Not your—” Harry cuts him off with his lips, kissing him hard and demanding, grinding his hips against Zayn’s until Zayn’s squirming under him, his hands in Harry’s hair, just as demanding as Harry.

“What was that, baby?” Harry asks, biting his way down Zayn’s neck. Not hard enough to mark, but hard enough they feel like they will. “You had something to say?”

“Fuck off,” Zayn mutters, and his fingers are digging into Harry’s shoulders now. Like Zayn’s gotten his claws into Harry. “Fuck off, and just fuck me.”

“Only because it’s your birthday,” Harry tells him. He runs his hands down Zayn’s side, under the jacket. “Not my baby, are you?” He’s not, and Harry knows it; knows that for all it’s a joke Zayn’s not his. Not in any way that counts. Zayn’s his own, so amazingly blazingly his own, and Harry can just hold on as long as he can.

“No,” Zayn mutters, and Harry bites at his neck, as he flicks at Zayn’s hardening nipples, so Zayn’s head thunks back and he swears. “ _Harry_.”

“What was that?” Harry teases, and mouths down Zayn’s stomach, over his navel, down to his hips. He loves Zayn like this, when his fierceness boils down to demanding, when Harry can get him to do whatever Harry says, for once.

“Hurry up,” Zayn tells him, as Harry bites at his thighs, avoiding his cock because he can. “It’s my birthday, I want birthday sex.”

“I’m giving you birthday sex,” Harry points out.

“I want you to fuck me,” Zayn demands, and Harry laughs as he kisses at Zayn’s hipbone, pushing down enough that he’ll stop Zayn from moving. He’ll give Zayn what he wants. But on his terms, too.

“Patience, baby.”

“Harry—”

“Roll over,” Harry orders, pulling away from Zayn enough to pat at his hip. Zayn does without hesitation, rolling over onto his stomach, and Harry’s breath catches again. The jacket looks even better like this, how it ends right above his ass, how the red shines. How the words look like a taunt.

Harry presses his lips to the base of Zayn’s spine, then eases apart his legs. Zayn’s gone still, realizing what’s going to happen.

“Good?” Harry asks, his lips brushing against Zayn’s skin.

“Fuck. Yeah.” Zayn’s already sounding breathy, and Harry grins. One day—maybe today, though he doesn’t think Zayn’s sober enough for it—he’ll get Zayn to lose his voice completely, get him so loud he’ll be hoarse for days.

Harry doesn’t give Zayn more warning, before he drags his tongue over Zayn’s hole. Zayn makes a sound like a moan, maybe like a whine, and his hips rock back into Harry already. Harry stills them with his hands, then goes to work.

He teases still, because it’s the most fun, licking around Zayn’s hole, until Zayn’s swearing at Harry and Harry can’t hold out any longer. He pushes in then, and Zayn definitely moans this time, squirming against Harry’s hands. Harry keeps going, fucking his tongue in, as Zayn mutters wordlessly into the pillows. It’s one of the hottest things Harry’s ever seen, how Zayn’s turned into a mess like this, how he’s begging Harry to “please, just—please—”

Finally, when Harry thinks he’s going to explode too, he starts adding fingers, opening Zayn up until he’s fucking himself back on Harry’s fingers.

Harry’s graceless as he sheds his clothes then, because teasing Zayn is always a two way street—it gets Zayn like this, tense and trembling under Harry’s hands, so utterly focused on Harry and loud with it, but it’s torture for Harry too. They both groan as Harry pulls Zayn back onto all fours, as he sinks slowly into Zayn.

“Yes, please, Harry, come on,” Zayn’s saying, a mess of words and Harry’s name, and Harry does as he’s told. He fucks Zayn hard, as Zayn fucks himself back at the same rhythm, and Harry’s had a lot of sex but somehow it’s different with Zayn. With Zayn writhing under him, sweat in droplets at his neck, staining the jacket just a bit. Not his baby, Harry knows, but he’d like to see someone else get Zayn to this point.

Harry leans over, wraps a hand around Zayn’s cock to start jerking him off as he fucks into him, and Zayn groans, his head dropping. “Come on,” Harry murmurs into his ear, his voice low and hoarse, “Come for me, baby.” It only takes a few more strokes before Zayn does, moaning out Harry’s name, and maybe it’s that that makes Harry come too, fucking into him as Zayn shudders and tightens around him from his own orgasm.

Harry stays slumped over him as he comes down, pressing idle kisses to Zayn’s neck, above the hem of the jacket.

“Okay, come here,” Zayn orders, at last, and Harry laughs as he pulls out of Zayn. It’s Zayn’s birthday, so he lets him laze around as Harry throws away the condom, gets a washcloth to clean them off. He’s taken the jacket off when Harry comes back from throwing the washcloth into the bin, but it’s lying on the floor next to the bed, the writing clear. Not your baby.

Harry lets Zayn tug him in next to him in bed, adjust them so that they’re cuddled close to each other. Zayn’s breath is evening out, because he’s always useless after sex, and Harry sighs, pulls him close.

“Happy birthday, baby,” Harry tells him, pressing his lips to Zayn’s forehead idly.

“Not your baby,” Zayn mutters, barely awake, and Harry could laugh. He knows that. Knows Zayn isn’t his, not even close, not like Zayn’s caught him—but he’d like to see someone else have Zayn like this.

 

**2**

“He does it on purpose.”

Harry hums. He’s paying attention to Louis. Mainly. Other than the parts where he’s watching Zayn in the kitchen, where he’s drinking his coffee and doing his thing where he tries to pretend he’s awake. It’s cute, how he glares a little at his mug, like the caffeine is doing him a personal insult by not being in his veins already. It’s also cute, Harry’ll admit, how he’s wearing what he had pulled on before getting out of bed that morning, Harry’s Delta Chi tank top and sweatpants. Harry’s pretty sure it was just the closest thing to hand, but he’s not complaining, either.

“Earth to Styles.” Louis snaps. He’s not going to go away, Harry knows, from long experience. Acknowledging him is the only hope he’ll stop.

“What?”

“He does it on purpose. The wearing your clothes. So you do…this.” Louis waves a hand at Harry, and Harry chuckles, but doesn’t look away from Zayn. He’s stretching, to rub at his neck, and it lifts up Harry’s tank top just enough to show the skin above where he’s had to draw the drawstrings tight. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it, Zayn in Harry’s clothes. Zayn always takes up so much space. It’s not until Harry’s shirts hang long on him, until he has to tie his sweatpants as tight as they can go, that Harry remembers he’s lean, at the least. All bones and eyes and attitude.

Or, when he wears Harry’s clothes, and when Harry gets him out of them, at least.

“He’s riling you up,” Louis’s saying.

“So?” Harry’s not sure he is, but he doesn’t care. He likes Zayn in his clothes, he’s never made a secret of it. Not since the first time, Zayn in his bed cuddling in Harry’s too big sweatshirt. The first time Harry had seen the person beneath the prickly, he thinks—the first time he’d seen Zayn blink his big eyes and smile soft and confused. The first time he’d realized Zayn wasn’t just the hot hipster, but that he was cute too, softer on the inside than he’d like to admit. The first time Harry had seen Zayn with a Delta Chi symbol on him—with Harry’s letters on him—and realized how much he liked it.

“So, he’s manipulating you. Not that I don’t admire him for it, but I thought as your brother I should—Harry?”

Harry’s given up on listening to Louis, because Zayn’s looked up and met Harry’s gaze. In an hour, the smile he’s giving Harry would be a smirk; now it’s just a smile, soft and pleased, even if he does lick his lips like he knows gets to Harry.

Harry leaves Louis behind to make his way directly to the kitchen. He picks the coffee out of Zayn’s grip, sets it on the counter, and settles his hands on Zayn’s hips, his thumb sliding under the edge of the tank top to press against Zayn’s skin. “Louis says you’re wearing my clothes on purpose.”

“Yeah?” Zayn’s still got that knowing smile on, but he’s not shifting under Harry’s hands. Seems content to stay there, close to Harry, letting the sleepy morning wrap around them. “They are pretty comfortable.”

Harry decides not to call Zayn out on his hypocrisy about anything to do with frats, because that’s not conducive to what he wants. Let it never be said Harry Styles isn’t goal oriented. “Hm. That’s the only reason?” Reluctantly he moves a hand from Zayn’s hip to trace the letters on his chest. “Nothing to do with how much I like you with my letters on you?”

Zayn’s hands are on Harry’s stomach now, under his shirt. Harry wonders, idly, if Louis got gone. He’s not sure he cares. It won’t be the first time any of the brothers have seen him and Zayn like this. It’s not his fault, when his boyfriend is that hot and spends what feels like half his life either getting Harry angry enough to fuck him or getting angry enough Harry has to fuck him to calm him down. Zayn rises up on the balls of his feet, so he can whisper in Harry’s ear.

“Maybe I like your letters on me.”

Harry’s hand closes convulsively on Zayn’s hip. He doesn’t have to look to know Zayn is laughing, and again, he doesn’t care. Zayn’s an asshole. But he’s Harry’s asshole, and he’s wearing Harry’s clothes like he doesn’t care that it looks to the whole world like he’s Harry’s.

“Come here.” It’s less a request and more an order, as he tugs Zayn with him out of the kitchen, back up to his room. “You’ve worn those clothes long enough.”

“Oh? Don’t like me borrowing your stuff?” Zayn chuckles, but then he’s got his arms on Harry’s neck, and Harry forgets to reply in favor of kissing Zayn.

 

**3**

“What is wrong with you?” Harry snaps, at last. After Zayn had finished sniping at his hair, his friends, his new job, his hometown. “Why are you so pissy?”

“I’m not.” Zayn crosses his arms. If he wasn’t being such an asshole, Harry would be appreciating the sight a lot more—Zayn had taken his breath away, when he’d come into the house. Six months together, longer fucking, and Harry’d never seen him like this, in a suit. He looks—fuck, it looks good. Everyone looks good in a suit, Harry knows that, but Zayn wears it like he wears everything else, like he’s taking something normal and making it more. It’s something in the way the trousers cling to his legs, how the jacket broadens his shoulders. In how the crisp white against the dark blue of it makes his eyes stand out more, draws the eyes to the ink on his hands. If he wasn’t being such an asshole, Harry would say screw dinner, screw graduation, and just keep him here and strip each layer off him slowly, until Zayn was swearing at him to hurry up already while Harry took his time admiring each piece of Zayn.

But he is being an asshole, and Harry—he just wants this to go well. It’s his graduation dinner. It’s the first time Zayn’s properly meeting his family. He wants it to go well, not have Zayn being an asshole.

“You are,” Harry informs him, and shuts the door to his room. Or, his room for a few more days. Then they’re gone, Zayn home until he can find a place with Claire and Marta, Harry home until school. They won’t come back to this room after that. “And I’d really like my parents not to hate you, so—”

“Thanks,” Zayn snaps. He turns to the mirror, his hand rising to fiddle with his hair before he appears to remember he buzzed it all off a few days ago. “Just what I needed. Really.”

Harry stares at his back for a moment, trying to parse that out. They’re getting late. They should leave, if they want to meet Harry’s parents on time.

But instead Harry goes to the mirror too, slides his arms around Zayn’s waist, hooks his chin over Zayn’s shoulder. “Are you nervous?” he asks.

Zayn’s eyes are big in the mirror. Maybe it’s the buzz cut, maybe not. “No,” he snaps.

“Zayn.”

“No,” Zayn repeats. His hands are on Harry’s, but not to make him let go. Just resting there. “Maybe,” he admits, glancing away from Harry’s gaze in the mirror. Harry hides his smile, but it’s, well. A bit nice, really. He’s never seen Zayn nervous. Anxious, before a test, before an interview, but never nervous like this. Something in Harry likes that it’s because of him. Because Zayn cares enough about him to be nervous.

“Meeting my parents?” Harry asks, though, because that’s a not very nice part of him and he’d rather Zayn in one of his good moods. His parents won’t be able to resist Zayn either way, he knows that, but he wants them to meet Zayn at his most brilliant, because he likes to show off. “Why? I’ve already told them all about you, they love you.”

“I’m not…” Zayn shakes his head. “I’m not the kind of guy a guy like you brings home to his parents, Harry.”

“We aren’t home,” Harry points out, and catches Zayn’s elbow before it can dig into his ribs. “What do you mean?” he amends.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “The tattooed working class Pakistani Muslim kid? You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“That’s bullshit.” It’s Harry’s turn to roll his eyes. “And you know it. They aren’t like that.”

“That you’ve seen. People can change, when they’re faced with—”

Harry’s heard enough of Zayn’s neuroses. He turns Zayn around, so he can properly meet his eyes, and presses his fingers to Zayn’s lips. “That’s bullshit and you know it,” he repeats. “My mom’s over the moon about my brilliant boyfriend. Robin asked me five thousand times if I’m sure you’ll find something to eat at the restaurant, or if we should choose somewhere else. I think they’re more worried you won’t like them.” Zayn’s making his mutinous face, but Harry doesn’t move his hand. Sometimes Zayn needs to just be shut up so Harry can talk him down. “They’re going to love you, and you know that. What’s really wrong?”

He moves his hand so Zayn can talk. Zayn scowls at his hand, then at Harry. “That’s not enough?”

“Zayn.”

“I don’t always make the best first impression.”

“You made a good first impression on me.”

“Because you wanted to fuck me. Not exactly the one I mean to have on your parents.”

“Zayn.” Harry sighs, and rubs his thumb over Zayn’s cheekbone. The buzzcut made them stand out even more. He misses Zayn’s hair, how nice it was to get a hand in it, to run his fingers through it, but he likes the buzzcut too, how it brings out the delicacy of his features and somehow makes him look harder too. Though it’s not like Harry has any say in what Zayn does with his hair. “Stop BSing. What’s wrong?”

“I—” Zayn shakes his head. “It’s graduation. Everything’s changing. Two months, Harry. At least. What are we supposed to do for two months? What if—”

“Skype sex,” Harry interrupts him. He’s been trying not to think about that, if he’s being honest—trying not to think about the impending separation. Trying not to think about Zayn so far away. About what Zayn will think about him, when they aren’t close enough to touch. When it’s just him and his hipster friends, who sit around making fun of people like Harry. “I’ll have to get you off with just my voice, telling you what to do, what I’ll do to you.” He gets his hands on Zayn’s ass, because it looks really good in this suit, and he needs to take opportunities when he can. Zayn’s gaze is going dark, the restlessness turning into something else. “I bet you’ll love it,” Harry goes on, letting his voice go low and rough. He’ll remind Zayn of what they have every day over those two months if he has to. Remind him what Harry can give him. “You do love my dirty mouth, don’t you, baby?”

Zayn shivers, his mouth gaping open just enough for Harry to kiss—then he yanks himself away. “Screw you. I can’t meet your parents worked up.”

Harry glances at his watch. They’ve got a little time. Maybe. He’ll taking being a bit late for Zayn in that suit. For Zayn out of that suit. “Then we’ll have to take care of that, won’t we?” he purrs, and Zayn makes a sound that might be a growl and tugs Harry in by the lapels.

 

**4**

Harry’s never seen Zayn like this. In a number of ways—he’s never seen him quite this light, this easy, as now, surrounded by his family, one of his little cousins on his lap and grinning at him as he tries what looks like a magic trick. Harry’d never quite realized how much tension Zayn carried with him until he let it go; until he was in a place where he didn’t think there was any threat.

And then there’s the other thing. He’d watched Zayn get dressed this morning, in Zayn’s childhood bedroom, as Zayn drew on the gold pants and shining red jacket—a sherwani, Zayn’d explained, meeting Harry’s eyes hard in the mirror, like he was daring him to make a joke or a comment. Harry’s only comment then, as now, would be about how much he loved Zayn in that brilliant red, in the gold that matched his eyes in some lights. It’s not exoticizing, which Zayn’s yelled at Liam for before, when he’d said something about a Bollywood movie Zayn’d bullied them into watching. Or at least, Harry doesn’t think it is. Harry thinks it’s just admiring his beautiful boyfriend, in clothing he’s never seen before, that expresses a part of Zayn that he’d never really been exposed to.

He feels out of place here, in his dark suit. Zayn’d said it’d be fine, that there’d be other people in suits at the reception, and there are—but it hadn’t been like any wedding Harry’d ever been too. Maybe this is how Zayn always feels. Like a bird with conspicuously different feathers.

But he can’t object, can’t care, because he’s never seen Zayn smile so brightly, as when he’s talking with his cousins. With the family he loves so fiercely, that Harry’s heard story after story about, Zayn bragging about each one of his cousins, what they’ve done. His smile’s as golden as his clothes, as bright.

“Don’t want to dive in?” Jawaad appears beside Harry. His sherwani’s a deep blue.

Harry gives him his best neutral smile. Jawaad’s the only other person here his age he knows, but he doesn’t even know him that well. He’d kept to himself while they were at school, the few times Harry’d hung out with Zayn and his friends, and now he’s still at school. He’d never gotten a proper read on him, other than the stories Zayn had told him.

“Not sure where to start,” Harry admits.

“He’ll be there a while. Then the aunties are going to steal him. If you’re going to save him, you need to do it before that.” Jawaad, raises an eyebrow. “If you’re going to save yourself, you should do it before then. There’s plenty of inspecting you being done here, you know.”

“Inspecting?”

“Sure.” Jawaad snorts. “You didn’t think Zayn’s parents were the only ones you had to impress, did you? Everyone here’s got a say.”

Well, that’s not nerve wracking. Even though Harry knows Zayn’s parents love him, and he’s confident he can get the rest of Zayn’s family to as well. “Good thing I’m a people person.”

“Yeah.” Jawaad doesn’t seem entirely impressed. At least Harry wasn’t particularly trying to charm him.

Zayn looks up from his cousin, catches Harry’s eye. He’s grinning, as he mouths ‘you alright?’

Harry nods, and then the cousin’s tugging on Zayn’s arm, impatient. Zayn ducks his head to listen.

“I thought you were such a bad idea.” Jawaad says suddenly. Harry manages not to jump. He’d honestly almost forgotten Jawaad was even there. “Back in school. Zayn pretends he doesn’t care but he doesn’t just fuck around, you know? And I figured you’d fuck him over.”

“You didn’t have the best experience with frats,” Harry agrees, neutral. He thinks Jawaad has a point he’s getting to. And it’s true. He’d seen Jawaad, after that whole blow up. It hadn’t been pretty.

“Truth.” Jawaad takes a breath. “So don’t fuck him over.”

“What?” Jawaad’s voice is serious enough Harry turns away from Zayn to look at him. He looks serious too, his dark eyes almost as fierce as his cousin’s can get. “I’m not.”

“Zayn’s always looked after me, yeah?” Jawaad goes on, like Harry didn’t say anything. “After all of us. I know he’s taken a lot of shit so I don’t have to, probably more than he’s ever told me. He’d do anything for people he loves, even if he’ll bitch about it the whole time.”

“I know.” He does. Harry knows, and loves him for it. For every time he throws himself in front of a bullet so someone else won’t take it. Every time he lashes out for an injustice, even if it’s usually not the time or place for the fight.

“Yeah, well. Just remember that he’s loved too.” Jawaad’s glare is not as good as his cousin’s, and Harry’s stood up to that, but he gives him points for trying.

“Okay.”

“And you might have all your frat brothers, or whatever, but Zayn’s got a lot of cousins. We could take you.”

“Okay,” Harry agrees again. Then, because he can’t not. “Why do you think it’s me who’s going to screw him over? He’s the one who’s…” More, Harry thinks. Who contains so many multitudes under the sharpness of his hotness. Harry’s gorgeous, angry, nerd. “Mercurial,” Harry finishes, with more tact than he probably needs. Zayn’s the one who gets angry. Zayn’s the one who burns so hot. Zayn’s the one who’s swept Harry up into him, so Harry never had a chance to escape.

Jawaad blinks, like that’s a stupid question. “Because Zayn doesn’t mess with people he cares about,” he replies, simply. “And for some reason, he cares about you. So watch it.”

“What are you two talking about?” Harry manages not to jump when Zayn interrupts, then Zayn’s chin is over Harry’s shoulder, and Harry reaches up to grab the hand Zayn drapes around his neck with both of his. “Are you playing nice?”

“I always play nice,” Harry objects. He feels like he should be offended by Zayn’s laugh at that, but it’s hard to be offended when Zayn’s pressed against his back like this, when he can see Zayn’s silly, carefree smile.

“That’s a lie.”

“Fine.” Harry grins back at him, purring a little. “I play nice except when you don’t want me to.”

“Way TMI.” Jawaad snorts. “There are children about.”

“I had a room next to yours. I know you know about this shit,” Zayn retorts.

“I didn’t mean me.” Jawaad shakes his head. “Just keep it in your pants until I’m out of earshot.” He raises a hand, then wanders away, to where more people his age seem to be gathering around a table.

Zayn tugs his hand out of Harry’s, but only goes far enough that he’s in front of Harry, his hands on Harry’s waist. “You okay here?”

“I’m fine. We were having a nice chat about who would win in a fight, my frat brothers or your cousins.”

Zayn tilts his head, thinking. “My cousins, definitely.”

“Hey! The brothers—”

“Maliks are dangerous when angry.”

“Oh, trust me. I know.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, but he’s still got that bright smile on, his eyes sparkling in a way Harry hadn’t thought possible, before he’d met Zayn. “Seriously, you okay? Not too much?”

“Not too much.” Because they are at a family event, Harry doesn’t even get his hands on Zayn’s ass, like he wants to. Instead, he wraps them around Zayn’s waist. Zayn comes easily, his hands moving up to Harry’s shoulders. “Hardest part is seeing you dressed like this.”

Zayn’s eyes narrow. “What does that—”

“Means,” Harry amends patiently, and drops his voice so that hopefully only Zayn will hear him, “That I can’t wait to get you out of them.”

Zayn relaxes, his lips curving into a smirk. “Yeah? Like the outfit?”

Harry hums his agreement. “Can’t wait to get you back. See if you can be properly quiet, so your family won’t hear how desperate you get.”

“Shit,” Zayn swears, and Harry gives himself an imaginary pat on the back. “There really are children here, Harry.”

“Not that can hear me,” Harry points out, and leans down to kiss Zayn. “Not my fault you look this hot.” He kisses Zayn again. He means for it to be hot, a teaser for what’s to come tonight, but it comes out more gently than he meant it. He can’t help how lovely it is to see Zayn here, with his family; how much he appreciates being allowed to see the soft underbelly of Zayn, where he lets his guard down.

“Harry…” Zayn blinks up at him, all big eyes and soft smile—then he drops his hands, turns around suddenly, and Harry notices the woman coming up to them, a middle aged woman with a fierce, determined look in her eyes that Harry vaguely recognizes.

“Zayn! Who is this young man?” she demands, and Zayn sighs, and grabs Harry’s hand.

“Hi, Auntie,” he says, his back up like he’s gearing up for a fight. “This is my boyfriend Harry. Be nice.”

Harry squeezes Zayn’s hand, and gives her his most charming smile. He doesn’t know what Jawaad is talking about, how he thinks he could ever screw Zayn over. That he could ever let go of this.

 

**5**

“Hey.” Zayn grins when he sees it’s Harry at the door, stepping back so Harry can get by him. “Come on in.”

“Hey.” Harry pauses, but he can’t not address the elephant in the room. “Zayn, you do know what you’re wearing?”

“What?” Zayn gives him a confused look, then laughs. He reaches up, adjusts the poofy pink jeweled tiara resting on his head. It looks somehow both incongruous, compared to his old ripped jeans and band t-shirt, and weirdly very good. “Yeah, we’re having a tea party.”

“A princess tea party!” Come the objection from the doorway, and Harry looks over Zayn’s shoulder to see Brooklyn hovering there, a doll clutched in her arms.

“A princess tea party,” Zayn corrects, and scoops her up in his arms. She wraps her chubby arms around his neck, and blinks at Harry. “You remember Harry, Brook?”

“Yeah,” she mutters, ducking her head shyly.

“Hey, Brooklyn.” Harry smiles, non-threatening. “Nice to see you again.”

“Hi,” she smiles back at him, just a bit of teeth.

“Do you mind if he plays with us?” Zayn asks her, very seriously. “Do you think he could be a princess too?”

She wrinkles her nose, clearly deep in thought, then shakes her head. “But you’re a princess.”

“So?” Zayn prompts. He gives Harry an apologetic look, and Harry shrugs, still smiling. He’s mainly figuring out how he can take a picture of Zayn in the tiara and send it to all the brothers.

“So,” Brooklyn sighs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re his princess. He can’t be a princess too.”

Harry can’t help his guffaw at that, and Zayn chokes out a laugh too, poking at Brooklyn’s cheeks. Yeah, he’s never letting Zayn live this one down. “Yeah, Zayn. You’re my princess. My pretty princess.”

The glare Zayn gives Harry says very well that he’s not going to get away with this scot-free, but Harry’s too amused to care. “Two princesses can love each other,” he tells Brooklyn, though. “Like Claire and Marta, remember?”

“But you aren’t both princesses,” she corrects.

“Can I come to your tea party?” Harry asks, before Zayn starts trying to teach his goddaughter social justice instead of just letting them drink tea. “Even if I’m not allowed to be a princess.”

She gives him a wary look, then nods. “Yeah.”

“Thank you!” Harry grins at her, then glances at Zayn. “I’m just gonna drop my stuff in your room.”

“We’ll get more tea,” Zayn agrees, and lets Brooklyn down so they can head towards the living room together, her hand in his.

Harry drops his bag in Zayn’s room, pulls out the jacket he needs to wear tomorrow before it gets wrinkled and hangs it up on the hangers in Zayn’s closet he’s started keeping empty. He plugs his phone into the wall charger, then grabs one of Zayn’s extra hair ties to pull his back before he leaves Zayn’s room to go back to the tea party.

Zayn and Brooklyn are sitting in the center of the living room, around the coffee table. Marta’s big art books have been moved to the couch, and there are a few stuffed animals taking up more places around the table. Zayn’s leaning over the table, listening very seriously to whatever Brooklyn’s saying, as she gazes back at him with big, adoring eyes. Not even the princess crown can make the image any less precious—or maybe it just helps.

It’s been over a year and a half, and it sometimes still hits Harry, just how much he loves Zayn. It wasn’t at all what he’d expected, when he’d started flirting with the hot guy in his English section; it wasn’t what he’d expected the first time Zayn had let Harry take him back to his room, like it was an imposition but he’d accept it. But somehow, since then, it’s become this—gotten to a point when Harry watches Zayn play at a tea party with a little girl, and can’t help but wonder if this is what it would look like, if the little girl was theirs. They aren’t there yet, not close, but—someday—he wonders if he could come home to this.

“Come on, Harry. Your tea is getting cold.”

“Yeah, come on!” Brooklyn echoes, and Harry laughs, and goes over to take his seat next to Zayn. Zayn’s still got the crown on. It’s silly, but he pulls it off. He could be a king. One that would probably get into too many wars over stupid shit, but a king.

“So, Princess Brooklyn,” Harry says, before he loses himself in the imagining. In thinking about things he’s not sure Zayn is, because they don’t talk about stuff like this. About the future. About where they’re going. And Harry’s happy with that, he’s fine with it. He gets Zayn now, in a way he hadn’t back in school, when he’d been so confused about what Zayn had felt, what they were. He gets that for Zayn, actions speak much louder than words, and the actions say that Zayn is having a tea party with Harry and his goddaughter. That Zayn and Harry sleep in the same bed most nights, even when they don’t have sex. That they cook together and squabble together and make holiday plans together. That’s what matters. “Can you introduce me to your subjects?”

They play tea party, then they color, and then they watch Little Mermaid until Caroline comes to pick Brooklyn up. Harry’s not sure where Claire and Marta are, but apparently they’re out, because when Caroline and Brooklyn leave it’s just the two of them in the apartment.

Zayn leans back against the kitchen counter, the crown still in his hair. “Thanks for coming tonight.”

“Of course.” Harry sits at one of the barstools. “She’s a great kid.”

“She is,” Zayn agrees, with a soft smile. “She’s gotten so big, though. Seems like just yesterday she was a baby.”

“That’s what happens with kids. They grow up.” Zayn’s eyes are soft, and pensive, so Harry reaches out for his belt loops, so he can tug him between Harry’s legs. “There’s that whole time thing, there.”

“Shut up,” Zayn retorts, but he’s laughing.

“Oh, do I have to listen to orders from the princess?” Harry asks, and Zayn makes a face.

“Don’t even try it.”

“But you’re wearing a crown!” Harry points out, keeping his hold on Zayn’s jeans as he tries to pull away. “You’re my princess, right?”

“Don’t even try it,” Zayn warns, finally stepping away, and Harry gets up too, so he can follow him back towards Zayn’s room.

“The prettiest princess,” Harry continues, managing to get through the door before Zayn closes it, though only just. “In your pretty crown.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Stop.”

“What was that?” Harry takes a few steps forward, so he can pin Zayn against the wall, pushing against him. Zayn’s breath is harsh. “You want me to keep going, princess?”

Zayn’s laughing, which isn’t entirely what Harry likes when he’s got Zayn pressed against a wall, but he can admit that the situation calls for it. “That’s really horrible.”

“See? There are worse things I could call you,” Harry tells him. It gets another chuckle from Zayn, and his hands curl around Harry’s biceps, like he always does when Harry does this. Harry smirks. He knows what Zayn likes.

“Still not your baby,” he tells Harry, and then he’s kissing Harry, hard. He really is the king of mixed messages. But Harry can’t bring himself to care, because now Zayn’s got his arms around Harry’s neck, and he’s pulling himself up so Harry doesn’t have a chance but to pick him up the rest of the way. Actions, Harry reminds himself. Maybe he’s not ready to say he’s Harry’s, maybe he isn’t even Harry’s. Maybe he isn’t thinking about their kids like Harry is, or at least he’s not ready to say it. But he’s warm and willing in Harry’s arms, kissing Harry so his brain’s gone, and he smiles when Harry comes home to him.

Harry drops Zayn on the bed, then surveys him as Zayn tugs Harry down with him. “Okay,” Harry decides, pulling the crown off and tossing it away. “This has to go.”

“Thought you liked it.” Zayn smirks at Harry, his hands already pulling at Harry’s shirt.

“I like you.” It comes out more sincere than Harry had meant, enough that Zayn stops with his palms on Harry’s chest, his mouth gaping open a little as he stares at Harry.

He doesn’t say it back. Doesn’t say anything back. But he kisses Harry soft and sweet, his fingers running through Harry’s hair gently, and yeah. He gets it.

 

**+1**

“Look what I found.”

Harry sets down the last box of Zayn’s books, then turns to where Zayn’s sitting on the floor, surrounded by all his shit. That must be one of the boxes he’d decided to label ‘random stuff’ rather than actually categorize them, which clearly is coming back to bite him in the ass now, like Harry had told him it would. If he’d just labeled his stuff properly like Harry had, it would be so much easier for him to unpack, and he wouldn’t have what looked like jackets in the living room of their new apartment.

But Harry doesn’t say any of that—not yet. He’s waiting until Zayn’s properly frustrated to pull that out. Instead, he looks at what Zayn’s holding. Or no, what he’s wearing.

“Shit, you kept that?” he laughs, as Zayn stands to show off the jacket he’s slipped on. It looks as good on him now as it had in college, the red standing out against his skin, even when he’s messy and frazzled from moving.

“Apparently.” Zayn shrugs. “It was a birthday present, after all.”

“The boys should be pleased.” Harry steps forward, strokes a hand over the silk on Zayn’s arm. “Their joke is lasting.”

“Well. Maybe I kept it for more than that.” Zayn grins. “That was a good birthday.”

“Yeah?” Harry puts on his most innocent face. “You get a lot of good presents?”

“Yours wasn’t the worst,” Zayn admits, sidling closer to Harry. His eyes are dark, hot. He was probably thinking about that night, while Harry was carrying his books upstairs. “We’ve got a brand new bed.”

“We do,” Harry agrees, staying still so Zayn has to wrap himself around him, because it will never not be fun to tease Zayn. “Interesting.”

“The sheets are all unpacked and everything.”

“They are,” Harry agrees, and manages to keep a straight face as Zayn snorts out a breath and grabs Harry’s face.

“Take me to bed already,” he demands.

Harry manages, through some great force of will, to tsk. “You’re always so demanding, baby.”

“Not your baby,” Zayn hisses, but he’s backing Harry up, towards their new bedroom. Harry sidesteps to avoid the boxes, maybe grabs Zayn so he’ll go faster. Their bedroom. Their bed. Theirs. All theirs. “Now are you going to christen thhe new bed, or not?”

Harry makes an executive decision, and spins them so Zayn’s against the wall. “Or we could christen the hall,” he points out, and Zayn nods, grinding his hips against Harry’s.

“The hall’s good too.”

\---

They do actually manage to make it to the bed, by some miracle. After, Harry watches as Zayn walks around the room—their room—to pick up the jacket, from where Harry had tossed it in his need to get Zayn naked. He brings it back to the bed, sitting on the edge as he traces the embroidery. It’s a lovely sight. One Harry gets all the time, now.

Zayn looks up, suddenly. “It’s—it’s just the baby thing, you know that right?”

“What?” Harry has the brain power to admire how Zayn looks, to revel in their new place, and to sleep. That’s all. Maybe they shouldn’t have done this when they had more unpacking to do. “Come back here.” He holds out his arms, like he can make Zayn come back just like that. He knows he can’t get Zayn to do anything he doesn’t want, has long since given up on that, but he also knows that Zayn’s not as hard to convince as he’d once thought.

“Why I say that. It’s not, like.” Zayn’s got that crinkle between his brows, that frustrated look he gets when he forgets a word, or has to say something he doesn’t want to. “It’s not that we’re not—I am in this. Us.”

Harry has to smile. It’s been a joke for as long as they’d been together. Ever since Zayn had stormed into Harry’s life like a force of nature, had knocked him over completely. Since he’d swept Harry off his feet, had caught him so utterly Harry hadn’t had a chance before he was Zayn’s.

“Somehow, I managed to figure that out by the time you agreed to move in with me,” Harry replies, and Zayn finally manages to get close enough Harry can grab his wrist, pull him back in. Back to Harry. He ignores the face Zayn’s making at him, and picks up the jacket, drapes it over Zayn’s shoulders. “Now come back to bed. Baby,” He adds, because he does love it when Zayn’s eyes glint like that, when he makes that angry face.

“Not your baby,” he mutters, poking at Harry’s chest, but he settles back onto the bed next to Harry, their feet mixed together, his head against Harry’s shoulder.

Harry presses his lips to Zayn’s temple. He’s gotten better, at learning to read what Zayn does, not what he says. They’re lying in their bed, in their apartment, and Zayn’s kissing Harry’s skin idly, soft and warm against him. “Whatever you say.”

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? Want to discuss? Comment or come chat on [ tumblr!](http://zaynandhisboys.tumblr.com/)


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